


Doting

by samulett



Series: samulett's Ignoct Week 2017 Fics [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 02:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11659383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samulett/pseuds/samulett
Summary: Of course, Noct was going to notice. If Ignis has put his rituals of presentation on the back burner, there must be a good—or perhaps miserable—reason for it.





	Doting

**Author's Note:**

> Ignoct Week, Day 1 — Taking care of each other
> 
> I'm so excited to be participating in Ignoct Week! Enjoy!

When Ignis wakes him that morning, his hand is like fire.  


Noct is attentive in record time, blinking through the haze of sleep and rolling onto his back, the gentle grip on his shoulder releasing and disappearing altogether.  


“You’re warm,” Noct grumbles into the dimness of the room, and he’s greeted with the faintest chuckle.  


“You’ve slept through your alarm again,” Ignis chides in that way of his that is not really chiding, completely sidestepping Noct’s astute observation. He turns to peel back the curtains from the window, letting morning light wash over the bed. Noct squints through the sudden brightness, but his focus is on Ignis instead. He is dressed in only a buttoned shirt, his jacket and gloves missing from the usually immaculate equation. His hair is swept across his forehead rather than styled, a sight that jumpstarts a memory of Ignis when he was younger, adjusting Noct’s tie to the nth degree. Noct can remember being terribly annoyed about the whole thing, but the image warms something in his chest.  


When Ignis moves to the cedar chest at the end of the bed, Noct catches the flush in his cheeks.  


Noctis hauls himself up to sitting, hands in his lap.  


“You sick?” he asks, ignoring the inclination to pretend, at least until otherwise brought up, that he hadn’t noticed. Ignis’s gaze lifts from the folded shirt he’s retrieved from the chest, a stray strand of hair swinging out over the bridge of his strong nose. The look he offers over the edge of his glasses is one of cool curiosity. An unmistakable cover up.  


“And however did you come to that conclusion?” he asks before his eyes guiltily drop again, reaching for a pair of pants to accompany the shirt. Noct huffs.  


“Looking at you,” he says, because it’s true. Of course, Noct was going to notice. If Ignis has put his rituals of presentation on the back burner, there must be a good—or perhaps miserable—reason for it. Ignis straightens then, long limbs settling after what seems like a strained movement just limply enough to confirm Noct’s suspicions. Ignis exhales, eyes closed. He takes a moment to compose himself, and Noctis watches intently, the soft twitch of his jaw a somehow captivating sight despite how close to defeated he looks.  


“It’s not but a minor cold. Nothing His Majesty should concern himself with,” Ignis says eventually, eyes opening and near _begging_ Noct not to press the issue any further. There is a tiny twist of regret in Noct’s stomach over mentioning the obvious feebleness of his chamberlain in the first place, but stronger than that is his wonder at seeing Ignis ill at all. And stronger than _that_ is this empathy, born and blossoming in seconds. He _hmm_ ’s a low note, like maybe there’s a real possibility he could decide _not_ to be concerned. Ignis surely knows him and his capacity to worry better than that, though.  


“He’s concerned,” Noct says of a certain prince, deadpan. Lazily, he pushes the covers over his knees and down to his ankles before swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress to the chill floor beneath. One might call it a miracle that he’s made it this far in only a few minutes of being roused, but desperate times.  


“Noct, please,” is the gentle appeal, two words that could mean an impressive number of things when coming out of Ignis’s mouth, but which here mean _I appreciate the sentiment but you needn’t trouble yourself._ But Noct has a knack for choosing to hear some things and going completely deaf in the presence of others.  


Noctis knows Ignis is watching him with pleading eyes as he scrubs a hand over his face and stretches a few muscles in his back but he doesn’t care. He stands, tugs free the edge of his shirt where it’s found its way inside the waistband of his boxers and wobbles into the bathroom with something resembling determination; he can only be expected to muster so much in full this early in the morning.  


“Noct—,” Ignis calls after him, presumably still from the end of the bed, holding Noct’s clothes like this is any other day. He must have spotted evidence of Noct’s resolve.  


“You should sit,” Noct cuts him off, but without any trace of venom or even a reasonable attempt at persuasion. He knows, despite every instinct Ignis has to put his own health and safety far, _far_ below Noct’s, that Ignis will be more than a little tempted to adhere to such a simple request, especially when every part of this screams of Noct’s off-center brand of affection.  


He’s pleased to find that Ignis has, indeed, set himself down on the edge of the bed when Noct returns with a cold, wet cloth, though he was apparently rife to let go of the security blanket that has become Noctis’s clothes for the day. They sit, as neat as ever, in his lap; a last gasp of normality. The window pours gold over his shoulders.  


“Ever wonder if your unending loyalty would get you into trouble someday?” Noctis asks casually, batting a hand at the pile of clothes until Ignis obliges and sets them aside. There is a smile intent on tugging Noct’s mouth crooked at how perfectly Ignis has just proved his point; there are very few things Noct could ask for and have Ignis flat out deny him. Which has left Noct with an attuned sense of what he should and shouldn’t seek out in the man before him, but this seems perfectly fair. Ignis is apparently in agreement as his knees spread and make room for Noct to step in between them, intimate but now so familiar.  


“Routinely,” Ignis says, the word wry but undoubtedly a surrender. It’s also a lie.  


Ignis tips his head back to look at Noct properly, eyes the color of a windswept sea and just as dangerously enticing. Noct’s heart thunders to attention—it’s the kind of wake up call that always does leagues better than beeping clocks or cute phone alerts that Prompto has downloaded for him—and it refuses to quiet as he makes the decision to reach out and pluck Ignis’s glasses delicately from his nose. They end up deposited on top of his folded shirt.  


Ignis’s eyes are closed, and they remain that way, dark lashes over cheeks turned pink. Noct stalls for a moment, twisting the cloth in his hands flat while he lets his gaze trace along the edges of Ignis’s face, drawing an invisible line between the spare few freckles that dot his skin. When he fears Ignis may be growing suspicious about the stretch of time left hanging between them, he lays the damp towel across Ignis’s forehead. Ignis sighs in instant relief, breath unexpected stumbly as he exhales. Noct, his fingers grazing over temple, cheek, and down to jaw, smiles to himself. His palm presses to the side of Ignis’s neck and he watches as tense shoulders loosen as if making space for all those places Noct would like to occupy.  


“Kind of you, Noct,” Ignis says as his lids drift halfway to open, gratitude taking physical form as his right hand settles against Noct’s waist before sliding down around his hip, a thumb discovering soft skin and the curve of bone just under the hem of his black t-shirt.  


Noct could tell him that he needs to take better care of himself, but that’s a foregone conclusion. His skin is hot and the color under his eyes is heavy. His collar, Noct notices, is half-turned up in the back, bent out of shape. Not that it matters—it’s certainly not like Noctis to putter over uniform—but it’s a clear sign that Ignis is pushing himself to breaking. He shouldn’t be here at all.  


But he is. Because he’s _Ignis_. Noctis can’t possibly begrudge him that. Instead, he’ll do the taking care where Ignis cannot. It’ll be a trade-off, a happy balance; Noct doting on Ignis and Ignis doting on Noct.  


“Just looking after you.” He half-shrugs and Ignis’s smile seems so fond and warm, he has to kiss it.  


Ignis makes a tiny, raw sound of surprise when Noctis cups his face and presses close, but his lips part under Noct’s mouth. A shiver tumbles down Noctis’s spine but Ignis holds him firm, both hands bracketing his hips now, chin tilted up to meet him. It is not the most coordinated string of kisses they’ve ever shared, languid and hazy in the wake of sleep and fevers, but there’s nothing wrong with Noct’s mouth meandering slightly off its mark or Ignis failing to keep track of time between the slide and slick of tongues and lips. Thought is far away, and yet Noct has focus enough to cherish the thrill of being the protector, of knowing he could lay Ignis’s head against his chest and bundle him up. Maybe when he has to breathe again, he will.  


Ignis pulls back just enough to mumble words against Noct’s mouth, each syllable another tiny kiss. “I’ll be deeply ashamed if I’m to find I’ve made the prince ill come tomorrow.”  


“Really?” Noct starts, breathing a laugh. His teeth nip at Ignis’s bottom lip. “I think that’d mean we _both_ get to stay in bed.”  


Noctis’s bed, to be precise, an important detail that Ignis clearly picks up on from the amused lift of his brow.  


“Have I mentioned His Majesty’s skills at negotiation have improved as of late?” he asks, smile soft where it presses to Noct’s.  


“Show me, instead,” Noct whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
